Other Ways
by Monocole
Summary: Imogen attempts an unexpected and dangerous technique to get information out of Constance. [Femslash; Hardbroom/Drill; one-shot snark!fluff crack-esque; cover art credit to Fairly Odd New Yorker.] [Reviews much appreciated!]


I recently joined for a free trial membership at 750words. I saw a friend on tumblr reblog an "imagine your favourite characters" post and apparently it inspired me. This is utter nonsense, some sort of snarky fluff in what could be an established or new-start relationship, and I should be ashamed of myself. I merely thought I'd share my shame with you lot.

For the tumblr post:

Imagine person A refusing to tell person B something. Something silly, like where they hid the remote, or what their middle name is. Person B gets so frustrated that they take action- they seize person A's hands, pinning them to the wall. Person B's hands slowly sneak up person A's shirt as they growl that they have 'other ways of making them speak'. Much to person A's surprise/regret, 'other ways' was not sexual, but instead a ruthless tickle-attack.

On to the ridiculousness!

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'Constance!'

Staccato footsteps halted as the witch whipped round to see which abysmally impertinent student had decided to cross the line with her today. The sound of her footsteps was replaced by the padded shuffle of bare feet hurrying along at a brisk jog.

'Constance Hardbroom!' Imogen Drill appeared around the bend of the corridor.

Constance's expression, if possible, grew even sterner. Her lips thinned. When opened, they released a voice as firm as the stone floor beneath her. 'Would you kindly keep your voice down, _Miss Drill_, and be mindful of keeping things professional— particularly with your superiors?'

Imogen's gaze was hard but not icy as she glared up at the woman. 'And is it _professional_ to steal from a colleague?'

'I beg your pardon—' Constance snapped, clearly irate.

'Where are my best trainers, _Miss Hardbroom?_'

'I should imagine in your closet, or somewhere else in the tip that is your personal quarters.' Constance crossed her arms over her chest. Imogen caught sight of fingernails before they disappeared behind elbows. For once, even the first and last fingers were hidden away.

Imogen's eyebrow rose. 'What have you done with my trainers?'

'It is insulting that you could think I would—'

Imogen decided on a new tactic: 'Constance, did you take my trainers?'

Constance could avoid a question like no other; her mind could run miles as easily as Imogen's body. One thing Constance could not do, however, was easily lie to a direct question.

Her eyes slid away from Imogen's steady gaze and off to the side, where her sight slipped farther and grazed the floor. She tapped her foot. 'I haven't taken them.'

'So you haven't got them now,' Imogen translated. Her eyes narrowed for all of an instant; she rocked from the heels to the balls of her feet and back again. 'Did you _move_ my trainers?'

Constance tried, she did. Unfortunately her voice was less steady, less strict, when she responded again: 'Not any more than you do on a daily basis, running rampant about the school as if chased.'

Imogen was quickly reaching the end of her rope. Her hands flew into the air as her frustration got the best of her. Confirmation, it seemed, would get her nowhere. 'What have you done with my trainers?'

'I did what had to be done.'

Imogen pictured her trainers—out of the shoebox only a week—peeking out of a bin somewhere, covered in fish bones and semolina pudding, with the laces frayed and useless after facing the teeth and claws of endless cats. She lunged at Constance before she could stop herself, intending only to press the woman up against the wall as a form of old schoolyard intimidation.

An instant later she had Constance against the stone with her hands pinned to either side, fingers interwoven in a manner that prohibited any spell-casting gestures.

Constance's voice was dangerously low, a whisper that would have stopped any student from yards away. 'You have put yourself in a precarious position, Imogen Drill. Or have you forgotten that I am a witch and you are not?'

Imogen felt shivers run rampant over her skin at the tone of the woman's voice. Despite that, the inclusion of her first name was not lost on her.

'I'm not and I haven't,' Imogen confirmed, close enough to Constance to feel the energy running between them but not close enough as to further enrage the witch. Imogen's voice was a growl, though with every word it grew lighter, much like a cat moving from high-hackled hissing to a pre-pounce wiggle. 'I have other ways of making you speak.'

'Do you? A potion up your sleeve? Oh—but you don't wear sleeves, do you? Too confining and sensible? Perhaps a truth spell? But then—'

The challenge to Constance's voice drove Imogen on. Quick as a sprinter at the starting shot, Imogen's fingers jumped from the woman's hands to her waist, where they began to move at an impeccable pace and with deadly accuracy. Where flesh dipped enviously in, Imogen's fingers delicately pinched; where flesh curved invitingly out, Imogen tapped in quick succession; where flesh was soft toward the anterior, Imogen pressed lightly; where flesh sloped ever upward toward topography that could addle any admirer's mind, Imogen swept only the most fleeting of feather-light touches that could nevertheless be felt through the fabric of Constance's stalwart floor-length dress.

It was all so quick and unexpected that Constance let loose the most uncharacteristic of sounds: a gale of laughter. It jumped to her eyes, which moistened.

Constance sucked in a breath and shoved Imogen away, but caught the woman's hand as she went reeling. In the next instant they were safely tucked away by the gym lockers.

'That was incredibly unprofessional,' Constance snapped.

Imogen glared and yanked her hand away, too surprised by her sudden transportation and the loss of laughter to catch the regret in the witch's eyes. 'We're the only ones in the sodding school! Or have you forgotten it's summer?'

'Not at all,' Constance returned. 'But apparently you have forgotten that that does not give you run of the school.'

'It may not, but I have every right to run _at_ the school, and for _that_ I need my trainers.' Imogen glared and flashed her fingers, glancing down to where she had just set them to tickling. 'And I'm done with this game. Where are they?'

'Under your nose.'

'Constance!' Imogen cried, quite on the verge of screeching. But she went to take a step toward the infuriating woman and trod on something firm yet bendable, something with laces...

She glanced down and caught sight of her trainers. Only they weren't as she had left them.

'You cleaned my trainers,' Imogen muttered, as much to the shoes and herself as to her companion. She removed her bare foot from atop the sturdy material and drew in a breath. 'You cleaned and dried my trainers.'

Constance said nothing, only watched.

Imogen was slow in looking up. 'But I went on a night run in the rain. I left these outside my door late—it must have been after midnight.'

'You certainly shouldn't leave your belongings all around the castle like a careless junior girl.'

Imogen paused for a moment and at last caught Constance's eye, ignoring the previous comment. 'You came by my bedroom sometime after midnight. You cleaned and dried my best trainers.'

'Clearly. And only so you wouldn't track mud all about the place—_again_,' Constance commented, wry as anything. 'Leisurely stroll, so don't expect I'll make a habit of it. I'm not a housemaid.'

'You came to visit late at night,' Imogen reiterated. She stared Constance down; the stare was returned without comment. 'Constance, did you come to visit me last night?'

Constance's foot moved to tap; her gaze slipped away. Movement brought it right back up again, and this time when Imogen came at her, Constance was quick to grab the approaching hands. 'None of that.'

'I wasn't.'

Constance blinked, eyes narrowing. 'You weren't?'

Imogen gently retrieved her hands, lacing one at the fingers as she had before and placing the other safely on the woman's shoulder. 'Better?'

A subtle smile bloomed over burgundy lips. As with the laughter, it moved at tremendous speed to her steady brown gaze. She pulled Imogen in with her free arm and spread her hand over the woman's back to keep her there. 'Better.'

'Good.' Imogen leaned up until her lips were close enough to frustrate Constance with the distance left between them. 'You're wicked, you know. The wickedest witch.'

'But not the worst,' Constance said with a rather wicked smile.

'Not usually,' Imogen confessed. She pressed her smile to her companion's and remained there for a breath, enjoying the closeness and the way Constance melded into her. 'Thank you for the trainers. I'll be fresh out of the shower this evening, should you decide to make your leisurely stroll a habit.'

'Just a customary check for cleanliness,' Constance whispered against Imogen's cheekbone; Imogen felt the brush of lips and shivered from hairline to toes. 'Perfunctory and professional.'

'Yes Miss Hardbroom,' Imogen replied, mimicking countless students. She offered a feral grin, drew her eyes down and up the witch's dress, and stole another kiss before plucking up the trainers and dashing off.

'Don't you dare track mud all through this castle!' Constance called after her retreating figure. She tried to repress the upward tug of her lips, but it stole the bite from her bark all the same.

'How else will you find me? Crystal ball?' The shout barely reached the witch's ears. She shook her head and rolled her eyes as she headed off toward the main staircase, grumbling about impossible women, mud-tracks and trainers, and the imbecilic, imprecise 'art' of crystalline scrying.

If she happened to show up at Imogen's door sometime after midnight, it was only to make sure the corridor was free of muddy trainers. If Imogen happened to open the door before Constance could consider not knocking, it was only to make sure the woman saw the way Imogen's quarters could shine as brightly as her smile. If the door happened to close again, which side Constance was on would be entirely for the two women to disclose.

Only two clues sat outside Imogen's bedroom the next morning: two running shoes, fresh and dry as the day they left their shoebox. Perhaps Imogen cleaned and dried them herself in the long hours of a Cackle's off-term night; or perhaps magic is not so selfish and trivial in the fight against mud and messy women.

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Thank you for reading. I am always _incredibly_ grateful for reviews!


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